


Steeped in History

by violetpeche



Category: NCT (Band), 威神V | WayV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dorian Gray Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Inspired by Novel, M/M, Serial Killers, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27206018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetpeche/pseuds/violetpeche
Summary: Time is endless—it’s relative, ever-present, and always tumbling in forward motion. Life is finite for personhood.But for Kun, life in its simplest sense was feckless.
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Qian Kun
Comments: 23
Kudos: 75
Collections: NCT Spookfest 2020





	Steeped in History

**Author's Note:**

> Did not expect this to be my first Kunten fic of 2020 posted on my account...but it feels nice being home, right?
> 
> I initially wrote this as a little [drabble on Twitter](https://twitter.com/johntographique/status/1317351252645142529) and decided to polish it up for Spookfest! There are a few extra tidbits thrown in this version to help round it out.
> 
> Things to know going in: inspired by Oscar Wilde's _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , Ten is a sugar baby, Kun drinks scotch.
> 
> Unbeta'd—please excuse any glaring typos.
> 
> Happy Halloween!

Time is endless—it’s relative, ever-present, and always tumbling in forward motion. Life is finite for personhood. 

But for Kun, life in its simplest sense was feckless.

 _An embellished life was a happy life_ , Kun thought. Life seeped its way into everything—even inanimate ornaments serve a pleasurable purpose.

His apartment was was home; a flat covered floor to ceiling with treasure lake collected from over the centuries. 

The mantel above the fireplace stowed a small troop of ancient Egyptian ushabtis and scarabs, beautifully carved in heavy stone.

Elsewhere in his salon, he was fond of the trinkets beautifully displayed under their glass dome cloches—pocket watches, rings, gems and jewels set in soft metals—heirlooms to former warriors, farmers, mothers.

The walls were plastered with forest green Jacquard wallpaper. Most of it was hidden behind his most prized possessions: the paintings—portraits of lords, emperors, mistresses, children, beloved pets—their essence frozen, everlasting within the hands of Kun’s impressive collection.

The tapestry was on display on the south wall. Over the years, the sun bleached away the colors of the threads, turning all reds a pale pink, and the blues faded into a sickly, dark green. 

It was of a scene at an altar with a young man splayed out in velvet robes on a funeral pyre. In its present state, Kun could barely make out the terror in his pale blue eyes as the muted yellow flames danced around him. He should have taken it to a conservator years ago to salvage the remnants of youth that resided within the weaves, but the young man’s look of abject terror and suffering fading into the thread was perhaps a better fate.

In a separate parlor down the passageway from the salon, Kun stored leaves of sketches, vibrant pastels, and ink drawings in archival boxes. Many were careless, fond memories etched down into scraps of paper like silly love letters, but some were far too precious to ever see the light of day—lest the sunlight burn a hole through their grace.

His most prized possessions were his portraits—most of which were oil paintings on stretched canvas. Many were displayed in striking gold gilded frames (with several that overshadowed their bland subjects), while the more abstracted subjects were housed in simple, washed wooden frames. Kun preferred the works to reflect the piece of history they were created in.

“These are lovely,” Ten said as soon as he stepped into the salon. He stood tall, with his chest forward and his hands pulled behind at the small of his back. It was a natural pose for Ten, as Kun had observed over the months.

“Thank you,” Kun said. He shuffled over to a cabinet to pull out two crystal glasses and a decanter of scotch whisky to pour for each of them. 

“How’s your collection so big?” Ten released his hands to accept the glass. “Did you inherit all of these?”

Kun felt the corner of his mouth pull up into a half smile as he brought his glass to his lips. “Mmm...you could say that.”

“I mean—there’s just,” Ten gestured at the wall, “so many.” He took a small gulp from his glass. Kun saw him try to disguise a wince before he continued. “And you clearly love portraits.”

Kun sunk into the leather wingback chair near the fireplace. He motioned for Ten to sit in the brocade nightmare across from him—he’d need to have that reupholstered soon.

Ten took a seat. “Why portraits?”

Kun studied the way the sun filtered through the gauzy white drapes and onto Ten’s face. It made him look more luminous, like he was glowing from the inside-out. 

“I like the company,” Kun said with a shrug.

Ten burst into a laugh. “Good one!”

His laugh—while obnoxious, reedy, and startling at first to Kun—was infectious. Kun couldn’t help his smile at Ten, and he took another hearty swig of scotch.

“Each canvas has a life of its own,” Kun said. “Each has their own story.”

Ten pointed at a canvas in the center of the north wall and Kun felt a blip in his chest.

"What's his story?" Ten asked.

The portrait was the largest amongst them all on the walls, and clearly the best-preserved painting. The colors still looked fresh, vibrant swaths of luscious, red fabric draped in the background. The subject appeared in full—tall, broad, lean muscles carved under the indeterminate light source. He stood proud, chest wide, and covered in silvered armor. One massive hand clasped the hilt of a sword strapped in a leather band around his waist, the other supported his helmet against his hip.

And his face: an unblemished warrior with luscious black hair, grey eyes, plush lips—

"His name was Xuxi," Kun answered. It had been a while since that name rolled off his tongue, and it felt so unnatural saying it out loud. "He was a stage actor. One of the finest of his era." 

"Ah, that explains why he's so handsome," Ten said coyly. 

Kun felt another smile pull at the corner of his mouth. "He was very tall, and he loved to look at himself in the mirror."

Ten took a quiet sip of his scotch. "I mean, I can't blame him." 

"He was—" Kun paused to clear his throat. "He's one of my favorites, actually. I've done some of the conservation work on the vermillion myself."

Ten cocked his head to the side. It was endearing, and the gesture seduced Kun into feeling just a bit softer looking at him. 

"Hmmm, I never took you for an artist,” Ten said.

Kun set his glass down on a side table. If he held onto it any longer, the scotch would turn warm in his hand. "Well...I'm more of an avid collector who likes to take care of his things."

Ten covered his smile with the back of his hand. “You take care of me very well, Mr. Qian.”

Another blip sparked in Kun’s chest. He made a special effort to ensure Ten was always happy under his watch. He wouldn’t allow Ten to lose his spirit.

Ten cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his chair. "You know, I never thought I'd ever get to see the inside of this place."

"Has it met your expectations?" Kun asked.

Ten craned his neck to survey the salon.

Kun watched the way his nimble fingers twisted in his lap. He admired the rings he'd gifted Ten over the past few months, adored the stack of bracelets that clinked together under the sleeve of Ten's striped shirt.

Ten shrugged. "I guess."

Kun clicked his tongue playfully. "You're always so hard to impress. A stubborn bastard."

Ten took another sip of his drink with a wry smile. "I like to see you try."

Even through Ten's smugness, Kun adored him but knew he had Ten wrapped around his finger—as much as Ten would never admit it. In the short time they'd got to know each other, Kun found Ten fascinating—if at times biting, yet caring—and he knew from the moment they met he'd like to keep him forever.

Kun surveyed the salon, eyes raking in the precious portraits and trinkets on display from over the centuries, absorbed with intricate stories, inches of time, and wondered how fitting Ten would be amongst them.

Kun stood from his seat.

"Might I show you my studio then?"

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! Thank you for reading.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/johntographique) | [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/violetpeche)


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